


fever when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight

by roseandthorns28



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha Eames (Inception), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arthur is Horny, Bedsharing, Cuddling, Eames is a gentleman, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Omega Arthur, Pseudoheat, job gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 21:16:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18948817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandthorns28/pseuds/roseandthorns28
Summary: A chemical mix-up, a double-booked room, two intrepid dream thieves, one bed.Written for the prompt:The job went south, now Arthur and Eames are stuck in a safe house with one bed. (Bonus points for surprise heat/rut ABO either in either position)





	fever when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight

**Author's Note:**

> I, like an idiot, thought the posting date was 29th May, not 29th April. Still, better late than never, right? 
> 
> This work is unbeta'ed, all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Title from Peggy Lee's 'Fever'.

“I’m sorry, mate. Nothing to be done now. Going to have to ride it out. Erm, no pun intended,” Yusuf’s tinny voice through the cell phone speaker says, dashing any hopes Eames had of getting help from that avenue. 

“You can’t be serious. There must be somethi–”

“It’s okay,” Arthur cuts in, leaning over to get closer to the phone, “Thanks, Yusuf. From now on, consider yourself on retainer for all subsequent jobs. I’ll email you the contract.” He cuts the call efficiently and without waiting for a reply. 

There’s a beat or two of silence before Eames tentatively asks, “So, what now?” 

“Now, nothing. Get out of here. I’ll see you back at the hotel,” Arthur says, pick up whatever detritus remained of their work. 

“What about him?” Eames asks, gesturing with his head to where Ronson lay unconscious on the floor. 

Arthur barely spares him a glance as he barks, “Leave him,” choosing to focus his attention on placing all the paperwork into his bag, in a manner that to any other person would appear neat and orderly but for Arthur is almost slovenly. 

Eames grabs his bag and makes quick work of cleaning his own area, something way out of character for him as well, but the point man pays him no mind. As he approaches the door, though, Eames pauses. “Listen, Arthur, I’m sorry. I was the one who recommended Ronson and-” 

“Drop it. It’s not your fault.” 

“I know but-” 

Arthur looks up and even from the distance, Eames can tell his skin is slightly flushed. “Eames. I’ll only say this the once. I don’t blame you. It’s not your fault he’s an alpha knothead.” 

Eames cringes on behalf of his entire subgender. 

“Right-o, then. Travel safe.” 

Arthur waves him off with an absent minded gesture and Eames leaves despite every instinct telling him to stay and escort Arthur to his room… and maybe even into his bed. 

Damn this. And damn that fucking architect he’d been stupid enough to trust.

By the time he lets himself into his hotel room, he’s successfully rationalised to himself that he took the right decision in not pushing Arthur any further, in leaving him be with Ronson. 

Regardless, he’s satiated a good part of his rage by cold clocking the cunt when he started going off at the mouth about it not being his fault that the Somnacin mix he’d procured was untested with omegas, about how Arthur should have announced to all and sundry that he was an omega, about how this is what happens when omegas think they can be at par with alphas or betas. 

There’s a lowkey simmer of worry in his gut but he decides that Arthur is a big boy and that he can manage himself, that he would resent any offers of help anyway so it’s not really on Eames that he left him alone when he was in such a state of fast approaching heat in any case. 

Wrapping up a job leaves Eames with a need to unwind, especially if he runs multiple forges. It takes something out of him and despite being a mostly undogmatic kind of a bloke, there is a sort of ritual he indulges in to help him shed all the baggage that clings to his skin from a job. This time though, he simply grabs the nearest bottle of liquor from the minibar and upends the 50ml of vodka down his gullet. What a goddamn mess of a day. 

He feels like he can still smell the sweet, enticing scent of Arthur in his nostrils that he’d only been privy to for a few minutes before the point man had stabbed himself in the thigh with an injection of what Eames can only assume were fast acting suppressants. 

When he’s feeling decently buzzed and after devouring a few items on the room service menu, Eames takes a long hard shower, allowing himself the small luxury of a leisurely wank. Try as he might, he can’t stop thoughts of Arthur, the look in his eyes, the way he smelt slightly of citrusy bergamot that compliments Eames’ cinnamon, the way his lips formed Eames’ name…. But then again, that’s nothing new for him. 

It’s as he steps out of the shower, intending upon reading a cheap detective novel he’d picked up from a flea market, that there are three precise knocks on the door.  He picks up his gun from the side table and hides it behind him as he opens the door midway.

“Is that how you open the door for everyone, Mr. Eames?” Arthur quips before pushing past him and into the hotel room. 

Eames quickly shuts the door, and turns to address his unwanted guest who is now sliding the PASIV under the bed and dumping his duffel bag on the coffee table, frowning at the empty miniatures. 

Arthur seems out of breath and jittery, looking a bit like he’s coming down with something. Thankfully, he’s only emanating a light heat-scent. Eames doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Arthur had burst in here with the full-blown sweet, inviting version of this. Probably locked himself in the bathroom and striped his cock raw. 

“I’m sorry, what exactly are you doing here, Arthur?” He asks, putting the gun back.

“They double booked my room. Didn’t have the energy to go looking for another one right now.” 

“And you knew where I was putting up how?” 

Arthur hits him with a characteristic dry look before his eyes drop and get stuck somewhere on Eames’ chest area. Eames can’t help but preen not only out of some sense of primitive alpha pride but also because he’s proud of his ink and he appreciates when people appreciate that. 

“You should put on a shirt,” is the only reply he gets before Arthur busies himself with poking at the remains of his dinner and reading the blurb on his book. He doesn’t know if it’s the side effects of heat or a reaction to Eames but the point man looks decidedly more flushed. 

“You could order room service if you’re hungry.” He comments, grabbing his t-shirt and briefs from his bag. He like sleeping in the buff sometimes, especially in places like this where the sheets are soft and the temperature just right. Looks like Arthur is here to stay, though, so there goes that plan. 

“I’m not hungry, but thanks.” 

Eames comes back to find the table cleared and Arthur, shoe and sock-less, on a phonecall. He barely responds and when he does, it’s with grunts. He ducks into the ensuite without a glance at the forger and Eames decides to leave him to it, parking his bum in the soft armchair and lighting up a cigarette as he loses himself in the book. 

He barely feels time pass and it’s only when his book is snatched from his hand that he realises Arthur’s presence.  He looks up and chokes on his own spit. Arthur is standing there dressed in a large sloppily buttoned white oxford that reaches his mid-thigh and exposes a vast swath of his chest. It’s clearly not his size and Eames vaguely remembers receiving it as a gift then forgetting about it entirely. 

“Why are you wearing my shirt? And where did you find that in the first place?” He asks incredulously, watching as Arthur thumbs through his book and takes a drag of his cigarette. He’s sensing a theme here…. 

“Underneath all the crazy garish ones,” Arthur says, tossing the book to the side, “I had to dig through a bit.” 

“Cheers, but you could’ve just as easily taken one of your own and not have to soil your hands on patterns or god forbid, a colour palette that’s not brown.” Eames is not defensive of his style per se, but he has a carefully cultivated image. He likes paisley, sue him. Plus, he won’t take fashion criticism from a man who once paired military green with dirt brown and grey. He only got away with it because he’s  _ Arthur _ . 

The point man in front of him shrugs, avoids looking at him, as he sucks the cigarette to the filter. Arthur is much better at deflection on a normal day. It seems as if his usual defenses are all obliterated; he shudders to think him being anywhere else in this state. 

Eames thinks he hears Arthur mumble something like, “smelled like you,” under his breath as he leans forward to stub the cigarette but then he disbalances and Eames reflexively sits up and stabilises him with his hands on Arthur’s waist, Arthur’s own coming to rest on his shoulders. 

They stay frozen like this for a moment, Eames getting a very close encounter with Arthur’s sweet heat-scent, the feel of him without the many, many layers of clothes, the way his – Eames’ – shirt is threatening to fall off his shoulder, the mussed up hair… 

Arthur’s eyes flick down to Eames’ hands on his hips and for a second the forger thinks that he’s about to lose the tools of his trade to an irate Arthur for taking liberties. Arthur, however, has other plans because he pushes Eames back into the chair and follows him, climbing into his lap, straddling him. 

Eames’ alpha instincts go absolutely mental. 

One one hand, there’s a willing, beautiful omega – not just any omega, the man he’s halfway arse over teakettle for – in his lap, smelling of heat and arousal. On the other, every instinct in his body that  _ doesn’t _ want to bend Arthur over the nearest horizontal surface and work off the adrenaline from the job and everything that followed, they’re all screaming at him to protect his ma- his frie- his Arthur. To carry him to bed and take care of him, help him through the course of his heat and then maybe, maybe he would see that Eames is a good… no. Bloody hell, he can’t think and his hands are still on Arthur’s waist. 

“A-arthur, you – what?” He stumbles for the first time in a long, long time. 

“Shhh, just relax, Mr. Eames. I know what I’m doing,” Arthur smirks as he settles his weight onto Eames, fuck, he can feel the heat between his thighs, the slight slickness through Arthur’s underwear. 

“You have no idea what you do to me, darling,” Eames groans, tilting his head back. Little does he realise that it gives Arthur the perfect opportunity to launch an attack on his neck, licking and nibbling his way along the length of it. The alpha in Eames can’t hold back any longer and his hands make their way to that deliciously pert ass finally, finally getting a handful and squeezing, coaxing his hips down against Eames’; they’re both hard, and the scents from their arousal mingle in the air like a wonderful bouquet. 

“Tell me,” Arthur murmurs against his skin, rubbing his cheek against Eames’ stubbled jaw like a cat. 

He pulls back long enough for Eames to catch a glimpse of his blown out eyes, the flush on his cheeks, the way he's almost panting as if in - oh, bloody hell. Eames is such a rotten bastard. 

He puts a stop to his grinding – even though it requires the rallying of every last shred of his willpower to do so – and moves his hands to Arthur's hips to stall him, push him away slightly. 

“Arthur, as much fun as this is, and you have no idea how hard it is for me to say this but I really don't think we should…” 

Arthur's pliancy vanishes only to be replaced by a glower and Eames is too far gone if he feels a sense of fond familiarity upon seeing it.

“Oh? You think I can't make my own decisions, hmm? That I need a big strong alpha to tell me what’s what?” 

“No, no, Jesus, Arthur. I’d say that if you were any other gender and unable to consent.” 

“I’m not - I’m not  _ mindless _ !” Arthur protests, grabbing onto Eames soft sleep shirt and never did he think that he'd be here, trying to convince Arthur out of sleeping with him. 

“But you don’t have a completely clear mind either. Go to sleep. If you still feel the same way come morning, or rather, after this episode, well, you know where to find me. You always do.” Eames says with an uptick of the last few words, smiling up at the point man. 

Arthur seems to consider this, frowning as he rubs the cloth between his fingers. 

“Tomorrow morning.” He states seemingly having come to a decision. 

“Pardon?” 

“It’s a pseudoheat. I’ll be okay by tomorrow morning. I contacted a specialist.” 

“Ah. So. It’s not the real thing?” 

“No, I probably would have just checked myself into an emergency heatroom if it were. I’m not an idiot.” Arthur rolls his eyes but the effect is lost somehow by him looking not much scarier than a kitten sitting on Eames lap in his oversized shirt. Not that he would ever make the mistake of taking this as vulnerability, not with Arthur. 

“Never dared to imply such, darling. Come on, let's put you to bed.” 

Arthur huffs and pushes off Eames’ lap and immediately stumbles forward. He would have fallen face first onto the floor if it hadn't been for Eames’ admittedly sharp reflexes, catching him around the waist. 

“Perhaps I should help you with that,” He quips, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice and picks Arthur up with a soft grunt. 

“What happened to not taking advantage?” 

“Come on, pet, I am an alpha in the end. One with scruples but an alpha nonetheless.” 

“Scruples shcruples. S'not like I'm–” Arthur cuts off with a yawn, “yeah, okay maybe I need sleep. Don't say anything. Asshole.” He preempts Eames’ smug ‘I told you so’. 

Eames lowers Arthur onto the bed, careful and simply stares at him, the most unravelled he's ever seen him be. It’s a precious sight.  

“Will you give me a kiss?” 

“I – Arthur. We just talked about–” Eames stutters. 

“No, I know. Not trying to seduce you or anything… not that it’d be very hard. Heh. Anyway, uh, just. One kiss?” Arthur gives Eames such a transparently coquettish look. The worst of it is, it works. 

“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” Eames chuckles, amused, bracing a knee on the bed and bending down to cup Arthur’s cheek, pulling him into a soft kiss. 

Arthur tastes of mint toothpaste and a hint nicotine, has the same hot slick soft feel of many others he's kissed but there's something about the fact that it's Arthur, that it's somewhat a culmination of years of tension, that it's a gift so freely given wrapped up in trust and desire…. It almost makes him lose all resolve. 

It takes Arthur pushing him back slightly for Eames to come to his senses. 

“Nope, one kiss. That's all you're getting, hotshot. You should've thought of it before you said no to this.” 

Eames looks at him open-mouthed and panting before he bursts into laughter. “Arthur you absolute minx!” 

“Shut up now, I want to sleep.”

“You’ll have to let go of my hand first, darling.” 

Arthur squints at him dangerously before he smirks and tugs at Eames’ hand, causing him to disbalance. The omega turns onto his side and pulls his arm over him, easy as you please, and curls up to sleep. 

Since the forger values his bits, he lets out nary a peep and settles in for the night; or as long as it amuses Arthur to have him loosely spoon him.

Eames drifts as time passes and it’s only slight movement by Arthur that brings him back to alertness. He looks at the silhouette of the sleeping omega, snoring lightly now, feeling grateful and humbled that Arthur chose to come to him, yet a little annoyed because how the hell is he going to ever recover from seeing an Arthur that was so soft and yielding, from having him in his arms. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to go back to their business relationship where the only hints of camaraderie is maybe grabbing a to-go cup of coffee for each other during the job. 

Just as he’s about to pull away, maybe cut his losses and kip on the armchair, Arthur turns beneath his hand, grumbling slightly and wriggles his way closer to Eames’ body. He feels the cold press of Arthur’s nose against his neck and then the warm puff of a deep sigh before Arthur goes loose-limbed and still again. 

Well, looks like he’s not going anywhere tonight. 

He tightens his arm around Arthur, ignoring the tickle of his breath and falls asleep. 


End file.
